


Order Up

by snarechan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Breakfast, Cold War, Community: rusame60min, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:50:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10067150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarechan/pseuds/snarechan
Summary: A lot can happen while you're left waiting in the cold.





	

**Author's Note:**

> In response to the prompt 'breakfast' on the Tumblr community _rusame60min_ , where creators were challenged to complete something within an hour. The original version of this story was posted to the community before the deadline, but I've since asked Keppiehed to proofread it.

Russia was late. _Bastard is doing this on purpose_ , America thought as he burrowed deeper inside his jacket. Snowflakes drifted off his shoulders and landed atop his boots. _He knows for a_ fact _I hate his stupid cold and his stupid ice and his stupid…everything!_

Barring the point that America himself was running late. He'd been against the idea of conducting a meeting this early, knowing how many layovers he had ahead of him. America wasn't inclined to wake three hours after finally laying down his head. He'd slept in an extra twenty minutes and even stopped for food on the way. The shop was in the middle of opening when America approached the front doors. The owner was rather set against serving a foreign soldier until he proved he could pay.

The coffee scorched his tongue on the first sip. America blamed Russia for that, too, if only on principle. If the other country believed in _reasonable_ hours, America wouldn't be half out of his mind with jetlag and overeager to warm up in this frigid wasteland. He finished the drink despite the mishap, not caring about the poor quality but rather about keeping his insides thawed.

Although without the warmth from his drink America did find it difficult to eat. His teeth chattered too hard, his hands shook inside their gloves—everything about him was shivering. Russia didn't need to be there to ensure America was miserable.

Some shuffling from behind startled America into straightening quickfire sharp and turning in place. "About damn time you… Oh." A little girl, and not Russia like he'd thought, stood there looking as surprised as he was. She shrunk back against the wall of the alley, trying to make herself unnoticeable. He choked at the sight of someone so _inconspicuous, people like her hiding everywhere, whispering about_ —

America closed his eyes and just. Breathed. Until he was in control enough to reopen his eyes and observe the slip of wrist peeking out from between her thin gloves and jacket sleeve. It was pale and birdlike. Her staring wasn't focused on him in return, but at the food in his hand.

Glancing up and down the road, America checked that they were still alone. The cafe he'd stopped at was two blocks over. This stretch of road was empty until the politicians that were due decided to show. As if to prove a point, the wind blew across the sidewalk and whirled clouds of snow around his feet.

Clearing his throat, America said in stunted Russian, " _Hey, kitten. Hungry?_ " He wasn't offended by the little girl's frown or the way she hunched tighter into the shadows. America actually had to keep from smiling; despite her head shaking, she only had eyes for the pastry in his hand.

" _Soviet made. Is good_." Or America hoped so. He'd yet to sample the food. He didn't even know what the treat was called – America just pointed at the sweetest seeming baked good in the case and hoped it wasn't worse than England's cooking. At the mention of the food's origin the girl took a tentative step forward, licking her lips as her resolve wavered.

Not moving beyond that, though, America opted to choose for her. Flicking his wrist, he tossed the pastry in her direction. All hesitation vanished as she expertly caught his pitch. _Give'r a mitt and she'd be one mean ball player_ , America mused. After she received the treat all he caught were the tips of her long, dark hair as she disappeared around the corner. _That kid would've made it to home plate to boot._

America raised his hands to his face and breathed into his gloves as he watched the spot a moment longer. Then the chill became too awful to tolerate, and he turned his back into the wind, almost bumping his nose into Russia's chest. " _Good morning._ "

America pulled back his fist just before it collided with Russia's hand. He couldn't tell if his was raised in greeting or to block the impending strike. Wanting to demand how long he'd been there, or how much he'd seen, or why couldn't he just walk like a normal person, America opened his mouth and what came out was, "Where the hell have you been? I've been waiting forever! I can't feel my fingers or my toes or my _face._ "

"Hm." Russia tilted his head from one side to the other, then glanced over America's shoulder. Teeth clenched, America readied for a rebuttal, but Russia gave him a straight answer for once. While staring at the alleyway he said, "Your stubborn ways are amusing. If you are so cold, why have you not knocked on the door?"

Relieved at the distraction, or maybe settling into the old and familiar, America said, "I told you! I've been waiting…for…"

Russia walked up the short steps to the double doors. He knocked three times and the door opened to reveal a stout, grey-haired man in a suit. Saluting Russia and stepping aside, he revealed a fireplace at the end of the long hallway. Pausing in the doorway, Russia turned back to America, who remained at the base of the steps trying not to gawk. Russia asked, "Are you not coming? Or is waiting in the snow a new American pastime?"

It took every ounce of America's will not to tell him to shove over and seem overeager to rush inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [writing blog on Tumblr](http://snaurus.tumblr.com/) for more content!


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